


Míquan Mélavë

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:41:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boromir and Theodred discuss the nature of love - specifically, the possibility of love between two men. Slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Míquan Mélavë

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

> _Be forewarned: This story contains explicit m/m sex; language; discussion of prostitution; canonical character death; and angst_

*******  
  
**_3010 T.A.; Dol Amroth_**  
  
*******  
  
Boromir mouthed the word silently to himself: _fukken_ , to fuck. There was simply something about it that fascinated him. Théodred had mentioned the Rohirric term two nights ago, as they had sat in the royal gardens and talked under the stars. And though he could not bring himself to say it out loud where so many people might overhear him, neither could he wholly banish it from his mind.  
  
He loved that word, _fuck._ It was so abrupt, so harsh – perfect for what it was. Théodred had tried to explain that it did not mean simply rutting bodies and quick release. It was an intimate act, usually done out of love, but not always. Boromir, though, had never heard that word in the polite circles of Gondorian court to which he was so accustomed. He would never apply it to his uncle's love for his aunt, or even to the more genteel, less frantic lovemaking he had enjoyed with the ladies of this brothel in his youth. Outwardly, Boromir had accepted his explanation, but in his mind he held on to the image he had of that word, to _fuck_ : bodies pulled close, simple joy, and little more.  
  
That simple joy was enough, for the moment. More than enough. The old prince of Dol Amroth, Boromir's grandfather, was already a month in the ground, but that grief still weighed heavily against him. Boromir was in sore need of distraction, of a counterweight against the pain that threatened to swell up around him and drown him. Boromir prided himself on his strength, but even the strongest man could not forestall the flood, if the dam broke.  
  
Adrahil was hardly the first person Boromir had known to die, but he was perhaps the first that Boromir had had the leisure to grieve, at least as an adult. As a soldier he had seen good men die, and those memories of course weighed heavy on him. Yet their deaths had been for a good cause, and if Boromir did not spend their blood gladly, at least they had freely agreed to risk their lives for the safety of friend and family.  
  
Boromir sat in a low chair, his head resting against the balcony balustrade. He looked up at Théodred. "Was what we just did fucking, do you think?" he asked.  
  
Théodred looked down at him, his gaze harsh for a moment before he sighed wearily. "We Rohirrim would say so. But we did not _just_ fuck, as I take your meaning."  
  
Boromir nodded to himself. He looked up at Théodred but after a moment let his head drop again. "I know. I know what you said, and I know that in Rohan, there would be little unnatural about two riders taking joy in one another when circumstance allowed – and no shame would attach to them, if neither neglected his duty. Yet here...." Boromir could not find words to explain how things were here in the south. He raised his head again, willing himself at least to meet Théodred's eyes, but quickly looked away.  
  
"Borya, I..." Théodred's voice trailed off. He walked over to Boromir and sat on the balustrade behind the Gondorian so that Boromir's head rested between his knees. He laid his hand just inside Boromir's collar and worked the taut shoulder muscles with his fingers.  
  
"Borya, I know that things are different in these southern lands," Théodred said after awhile. "I have always known that. But when I heard that your grandfather was dead, I came from Rohan as quickly as my horse could carry me. My father could have sent a letter by courier bearing his condolences to the prince, or at the least a less high-born emissary. But I came because I thought you needed me. Not just for quick relief, or distraction, but for support of a deeper sort."  
  
Boromir rolled his neck back, his hair brushing against Théodred's knuckles. Théodred bent down and kissed Boromir at the base of his throat. Leaning close to Boromir's ear, he continued, "I know there are some houses down near the docks where you can buy time in a man's bed, if you were so inclined. Tell me that I did not ride all the way from Rohan to play that part. For I know there are cheaper, more convenient men to be found here, Gondorian morals be damned, and I would not be your whore."  
  
Boromir felt his back stiffen, and he turned his head so that his lips were mere inches from Théodred's. The sight of those lips, parted a little, was alluring, as was the slight smell of brandy on Théodred's breath. Boromir felt his face flush a little as he remembered those lips wrapped around him, Théodred kneeling before him, that brandy-rich breath warm against Boromir's sensitive skin. Oh, how he longed for that oblivion! For Boromir had felt precious little regret or sorrow then; there had been no room in his mind for anything but pleasure, and the certainty that Théodred anchored him among the living.  
  
He longed to kiss Théodred then and there, or better yet, to pull him back through the balcony doors into the more private rooms. He would strip Théodred of his trews in short order and ride him hard and fast, until both men panted in unison. But that sad, uncertain look in Théodred's eyes forestalled him. And in truth, much as Boromir desired escape, a melancholy had settled on him. He was not even sure that fucking could wholly distract him now.  
  
Boromir turned around again. He felt Théodred's fingers clamp his shoulder, but after a while the grasp loosened and Théodred resumed his massage. "No, I do not think of you that way," Boromir said at last. "Never as a whore." He hoped that Théodred was convinced, for – though Boromir could never think of the Rohir in such a base way – he did not know how he _did_ view Théodred, and knew he could not put those feelings to words even if he was sure of them. His folk were not hedonists. Boromir knew full well that neither his father nor Imrahil nor even Faramir would excuse ignoble behavior on the basis of some pleasure he thought he deserved. But they were pragmatists, and Boromir hoped they might condone his behavior if it meant he was not distracted from more important matters. He had sent men into battle, many times knowing they would not return; how could anyone care overmuch about his bed-partners in light of that?  
  
Théodred said not a word while Boromir thought all this. The silence hung between them, until at last Boromir continued. "I remember, when I was sixteen, hearing the other esquires talk about the alley behind the Drunken Corsair inn, in the Second Circle of Minas Tirith. They whispered of boys, talented street waifs who would suck you off for a price. And that thought excited me – to think of some stranger servicing me, in some muddy back-street – the filth, the forbiddenness, 'twas exhilarating. And so I went, and again the next week, as often as I thought I could without being noticed."  
  
Théodred stopped rubbing his fingers along Boromir's shoulder blade, instead balling his hand into a fist. Boromir guessed he was trying to control his temper, so Boromir sped on.  
  
"But 'twas nothing like that, when I first met you. I remember your smile when your father first introduced us in Merethrond, and the way your hair gleamed in the candlelight. And the next day, when we wrestled at the festival, I wished I could touch you so without all the others looking on. And I desired to feel your firm hands on my hips, not through cloth but skin on skin. That was the first time I thought such thoughts about someone whose comforts I could not buy with coin – about a fellow lord."  
  
Théodred's fist relaxed until his hand lay flat on Boromir's shoulder. Boromir turned around to face him, resting his hand on Théodred's knee. "Mayhap that is something less than what I ought to feel for a lady, were I naturally constituted, but a whore? Never, Théo, never."  
  
A voice drifted up to them from below the balcony. It was a song, a serenade as old as the hills, that much Boromir knew for sure. And he thought he might know more; the words seemed eerily familiar, but he could not quite place them. " _Míquan Mélavë_ ," he hummed, more to himself than to Théodred. Théodred looked at him inquisitively, but seemed content to wait for Boromir's explanation.  
  
Boromir looked down over the balustrade. Below the balcony, he saw a boy perhaps eight years old gathering herbs from a garden. And that sight reminded him of another eight year old boy who knelt in a garden while that same song drifted out of the window. That boy gathered roses, and he brought them inside to his mother, who had sat him on her knee and taught him the song. Afterwards they sat by the fire, curled up together in her overstuffed chair.  
  
In a rush, Boromir realized that the mother had been _his_ mother, and that the child had been him. He sat eased himself back to his spot before Théodred, his head again between the Rohir's knees, but this time Boromir let his neck go limp so his cheek rested against Théodred's thigh.  
  
He had tried so hard not to think of his mother of late – for she was so entwined with memories of Adrahil, and the remembering could be so unpleasant – but now Boromir could not hold those thoughts wholly at bay. He remembered how she had jostled him on her knee when he was perhaps four, teaching him the words to this very song. Then some years later, he had snuck into her sitting-room one evening and asked her about the Mithrellas the song spoke of, and she had sat him on her lap and given him a sip of her coffee – how grown up he had felt! She had told him how Imrazór had come upon Mithrellas, and how a great love had grown between them despite his prejudice. Boromir still remembered the way her voice danced when she told that tale, and how warm the quilt had felt around them.  
  
He would not, could not, let himself think of the other time he had ventured into her chambers unbidden, and how cold her lifeless hand had been. Her maids had warned him to leave her be, told him she was sick and needed her rest, but he had not listened. And, much though he bade the memory to go away, he could not forget it; his head spun with thoughts he had hoped he had forgotten, but that his grandfather's death had drudged up once more.  
  
"What does he sing of? I cannot understand the words."  
  
Boromir shook himself from his reminiscences and looked up at Théodred. The voice had been his, and Boromir could have blessed him for pulling him back. "'Tis Quenya," he said. " _Míquan Mélavë_ – kiss me lovingly."  
  
Théodred snorted at that, then grew more serious once again. "You teach your children such songs?" he asked incredulously. "And I thought you Gondorians were a repressed sort."  
  
Boromir shrugged halfheartedly. "'Tis not so immodest as all that. The song speaks of Imrazór and the elf-maiden Mithrellas, who gave birth to Dol Amroth's first prince. According to the tale as my grandfather told it, Imrazór hated the elves, having come from Númenor in the days when the Faithful had fallen from favor. Mithrellas was separated from her company, and she came upon Imrazór asleep in the woods."  
  
"So he awoke and asked her to kiss him, despite his hatred?"  
  
Boromir suspected that Théodred did not care overmuch about the story of Mithrellas, but sensed that the telling still did him good. He felt a little more of the old energy back in his bones, and he shifted so he sat up a little straighter. "Not quite," he said. "She kissed him while he slept, and when he awoke he found he could not hate her. We say in Gondor that if you are kissed by an elf, with truest love in the elf's heart, that you will not wish the elf ill for a year and a day. And so it was with Imrazór. Mithrellas bore him two children, a son and a daughter, and every year on the anniversary of their first meeting he kissed her."  
  
Boromir looked up at Théodred, interested to see what he thought, but he could only see fascination in the Rohir's eyes. Whatever else he thought, it was well hidden.  
  
"After a while," Boromir continued, "Imrazór found that he did not hate Mithrellas, or did not think he did, so he took to begging her to return his kiss lovingly. He could not bear the thought of losing her. But then one year he sailed away from the Shore to survey the state of his fleet, and a storm kept him from returning home by the anniversary date. When at last he came home, Mithrellas was nowhere to be found. We say that she could not face the truth of whether Imrazór had really grown to love her, with no elvish magic to suppress his true feelings, and so she fled. "  
  
Théodred nodded seriously and kissed Boromir on the crown of his head. "It is a sad tale, to be sure," he said softly. "But it was fated to be so, for he would have died eventually, and she would have been left to heal her heart alone."  
  
Boromir felt a tear welling in his eye, but he did not let it escape. Instead, he turned to face Théodred. A part of him longed for the lie, the magical surety that another could be trusted to be there, with certainty, that left no room for doubt. He wanted Mithrellas's kiss to root him, so he would have no need for the frenzied, mind-numbing fucking he was so driven toward. Yet, in the end, all he had was Théodred. And he knew not whether that was enough. He had shared many a kiss with Théodred, but always of the passionate, groping sort – never the tender embrace he imagined Mithrellas and Imrazór had shared on those anniversary days.  
  
"I wish...." Théodred began to say, but apparently could not force his thoughts into words any better than Boromir could. "Ai, Borya," he said after a moment. He looked across the balcony to where a tray of food sat on a table. "You need food."  
  
Théodred moved to stand, but Boromir tightened his grip on Théodred's knee, stopping him. He thought to say that he was not hungry – for, odd as it sounded, he had the strength to fuck Théodred until he nearly collapsed, but not to chew – but the words got lost along the way.  
  
Instead, Boromir looked over his shoulder at Théodred. The Rohir ran his hand under Boromir's hair, unbound in the fashion the Gondorians adopted for mourning. Théodred wrapped his hand against Boromir's other wrist, and Boromir felt Théodred's calloused thumb on the inside of his wrist; something about that strength thrilled him.  
  
Boromir raised his face towards Théodred's, and they kissed, first briefly and then again more deeply. Boromir knew he would always remember the feel of that kiss, Théodred's lips parting a little under Boromir's. Theodred's teeth bit at Boromir's lower lip, the ferric taste of blood mixing with brandy and the slightest salty taste that Boromir guessed was his own seed, from earlier. And in that moment, Boromir cared not the slightest whether anyone saw them.  
  
In later years, Boromir often mused on how foolish it was to worry so much over being found out. Greater age and command experience had taught him that there were far worse things than fucking. Hearing of an ambush in Ithilien but having no news of whether his brother still lived, for one. Or sending men to their deaths, and _knowing_ they would die on his orders. Elven magic seemed a child's fantasy, and the idea that a kiss could tie them together for a year and a day seemed absurd. What hope did he have, really, that they would both be tied to Arda at the next year's end, let alone to each other? Yet he could not help it. Every year, Boromir still whispered to himself, almost as a solemn pledge: _Míquan Mélavë._


End file.
